“Which one of you here is Leah Botchpot?”

A loud clang echoed from the furthest part of the kitchen, and a puddle of steaming water spread out from behind one of the many fireplaces.

“Does that answer your question?” the head cook said.

Henry made his way back and stepped briskly through the spill to find a woman on her knees with a rag, furiously trying to soak the water up.

“Oh, is it any wonder they only trust me to boil water?” she muttered.

“Leah Botchpot, is it?” said Henry. “I need to talk to you about your father.”

“He’s dead,” the woman said without looking up. “If he hadn’t been friends with the owner I’d have been fired long ago, but I can’t say he’s done much else for me lately.”

“And his research? His notes?”

Leah Botchpot looked up. “His what?”

I know what it is like to be alone, without identity, without family, without memory. I am Sigma Albion, and I don’t know what, or who, I truely am. My life before the age of ten is a gaping void, with only a dim, dreamlike recollection of burning flames and the name ‘Sigma’ known to me.

I awoke near the a great city, dirty, naked, and alone–resorting to petty thievery to survive. Caught by the guardswhile stealing a bread loaf, I was taken to the town orphanage. There I met Helma Albion, the nurse who is my first recollection of kindness in this bleak world. She cared for me so tenderly that I often imagined her as my mother, or as my mother must have been. I remained at the orphanage for five years, until the elderly Helma died.

I struck out on my own, under cover of darkness, determined to carve a place for myself in the world, and taking the old woman’s family name as my own as a reminder that compassion does exist. I was unprepared for the rigors of travel, however, and nearly met my end at the hands of bandits. A guard patrol came to my aid, and I remained in the area for three years. I trained vigorously under the captain of the guard there, determined to be able to protect myself from the dangers that the open road holds.

I set off the night before I was to be officially initiated into the local guard. A rumor had come to the barracks, telling of a similar case of lost identity. However, the person had vanished by the time I reached the city, and I once more found myself dominated by others–not through steel this time, but through a honeyed tongue. I became a bounty hunter, chasing down those my ‘master’ convinced me were standing in my way. My final mission was to track a pair of thieves who had robbed a nobleman. It wasn’t easy, but I finally cornered Nyla Corvus and Jinx Galien after a month of pursuit. Nyla’s uncle, Miller, intervened. He stood, unarmed between my cowering marks and I. “Would you truly reward one injustice with another?” he asked.

“Let’s face it,” Jennie said, “you’ve never been able to hold a job for more than two months.”

“I always have a legitimate grievance,” Colin cried, waving his arms. “It’s not my fault, it’s that the modern workplace is so brutal and depersonalized.”

Jennie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? What about when you working the fryer at O’Doul’s?”

“That customer said he wanted extra grease,” Colin deadpanned. “Never said where he wanted it to come from.”

“Pizza Mahjong?”

“Hey, they wanted me to dance on the sidewalk holding a lunch special sign when things were slow without even the benefit of a cartoon dragon mask. A guy’s gotta have principles.”

“Oh, of course,” said Jennie, rolling her eyes. “Metromart?”

“It’s their own fault for neglecting to put ‘not for recreational riding’ stickers on pallet jacks. Not to mention the way they stocked the cereal aisle just like a row of competition dominoes.”

A forest of lit skyscrapers opened up before the window. “I can’t believe your view.”

Austin handed a freshly-poured cocktail to Jay. “My only compensation for long hours in the trenches.

“Just look at it,” Jay said, staring out the window as he absently swirled his drink. “This city…it’s gorgeous. All laid out at night…it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, but I’ve stopped looking.”

“Like something out of a storybook, huh?” Austin poured himself a scotch.

“It’s not that kind of beauty. It’s a dangerous, sinister, alluring thing…a dozen unhappy stories for every one that turns out right, all under the same skyline.”

Austin cocked an eyebrow. “Your point?”

Jay took a sip from his glass, never breaking his gaze. “It’s a that city cries for a better story than ours to take place within it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Austin said, setting his glass down with a sharp clink.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking for awhile. In the face of such possibilities, how can we manage to fill the hours with the same rat race people are running everywhere else?”

Sherry’s eyes went wide. “Harry, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, holding up his hands in the most conciliatory gesture he could muster. “It’s just a broken vase. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Actually, Harry, I’m afraid it is.”

Before Harry could reply, he felt the earth quake. The sky turned blood-red, while the heavens and earth were opened, releasing the wailing spirits of the damned.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I’ll be damned.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Sherry.

“Let me guess. Looking for the Golden City?”

“Yes, yes,” Arn said. “Finally, a man with answers. Can you tell me how to get there?”

“You have already arrived,” the man said, sweeping his arms. “You’re standing amidst it.”

With that horrible proclamation, a veil seemed to tear away from Arn’s sight. He suddenly beheld pieces of stone, long-forgotten walls, and other manmade shapes that had been twisted up in the overgrowth that lined the King’s Road.

“Yes, the city fell close to a thousand years ago, but stories do not always reflect this,” the man sighed. “The road is only kept clear because it is on a direct route from Eversong to Fillkirke.”

“W…why are you here, then?” Arm mumbled.

“I came here long ago, a young man in search of the Golden City. I learned of its history and fall, and in my twilight years I like to give counsel and aid where I can–learning the languages of the seekers that still come, and offering them a roof overhead before their return.”

People talk about flashbulb memories, moments frozen like amber in the mind. Cathy had always envied them.

The three examples people were always giving were Pearl Harbor, the JFK assassination, and 9/11. Cathy had missed them all. She hadn’t even been a zygote in 1941, and had been barely four years old in 1964–her mom said she had been asleep most of the day. Cathy had slept through September 11, too, having just come back San Diego and jet-lagged to hell.

Who, then, could have guessed that her first flashbulb memory would come at 11:47am on an otherwise unremarkable Saturday in June?

A puff piece, that’s all. “Last person born in the 1880’s still kicking.” Ought to entice a few readers, young turks who could barely comprehend someone born in the 1980’s, let alone 100 years prior.

But Agnes Ethel Wilson, age 116, had other ideas.

“Another newspaperman,” she said.

Rigby was taken aback, as the woman’s eyes were visibly clouded with cataracts, and he was wearing very casual clothes. “How did you know that?” he asked.

“When you been around as long as I have, you learn lots of things. Sound of a newsman’s footsteps ain’t the same as the sound of a milkman’s.”

“I…I suppose…” Rigby murmured, astonished.

“Ha!” Agnes croaked. “I’s just teasing with you, son. Orderly said you was coming.”

“Ha! Nonsense,” Shelly laughed. “Let me tell you something: I can understand people who were raised on it believing in that Chinese astrology crap, but there’s only one reason anyone without a epicanthus would buy into it. Tell me, Coop, what year were you born in?”

“1984. Year of the Tiger.”

“I thought so,” Shelly said. “People with good animals are always all about Chinese astrology. I was born in 1983, Year of the Pig. Oh, you Tigers and Dragons talk a good game about the pig standing for ‘honesty, passion, intelligence,” but if you were born in the Year of the Rooster you’d be crowing a different tune.”

This post is part of the September 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to respond to a picture.

Picture: Nighthawks (1942) by Edward Hopper

“So, is this the lady in red you were telling me about?” he said. “The one who wanted that book of yours, and the one who—might I add—I encouraged you to contact about it?”

“Allison Flint,” she said, extending her hand.

“Charlie Bulforth.” Charlie grasped and shook it. “Flint, huh?” he chortled. “Not likely. I know a Durant when I see one. We’ve still got some of the old posters in the station…the ones your dad put out when you ran away a few years back, remember?”

“I was fifteen,” Allison said coldly. “Hardly a few years ago.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie said, shoveling a forkful of pie into his maw. “I know you think you’re being clever with that alias, ma’am, but it doesn’t do any good. I hear society folks talking all the time about how scandalous it is that Mr. Durant’s only daughter’s gone over to the reds.”

“I see,” Allison said. “Do they also talk about how scandalous it was when your and your friends broke up our march the other year with clubs? I seem to remember you alternating between using your bullhorn to shout and to batter unarmed marchers.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
BigWords
robeiae
pezie
Ralph Pines
Cath
AbielleRose
Darkshore
dolores haze
Alynza
pyrosama